For such a joyful little jingle, the punch it delivered was kind of brutal. This was a moment I had long anticipated would arrive. Eventually.

Just not yet. Why now?

There, lazing awkwardly on the lounge, was a bug-eyed, cheeky three-year-old playing BikeRace TFG on my white iPhone. Then came the jingle. That awful little tune. That dagger in the heart of my manhood. That moment I officially became elderly.

“Dad, I beat your best score.’’

It had happened. I had been surpassed by my own spawn, and I’m only bloody 33!

My internal response was somewhat understandable. Well, understandable to everyone that has a Y chromosome and was born with an insatiable appetite for competition.

“Go to your room!’’ I said ferociously, in my mind, while patting him on the head.

My three-year-old boy had beaten me fair and square. It wasn’t even one of those wimpy Dad attempts at instilling confidence in their child by letting them beat the alpha male of the household.

His cute little thumbs danced their way to a genuine victory. Should I be proud? Not right now. My wife beat me at table tennis once. I put on a brave face, feigned some praise, and sulked inside. For a few days.

But said motorcycle game is my game, the secret amusement that got me through those daily Cityrail shunts from Central to Strathfield, the game I played on the toilet (Don’t recoil. We’ve all got one).

In my subsequent therapy session with the wife who generously made a two-bag-strong cup of Earl Grey, a sudden flashback helped temper my shock.

I had once delivered this telling blow to my own dad, who I left dripping in sweat and panting for breath when I first beat him at squash. We didn’t seem to hang around at the courts for long. And the car trip home was rather silent. I just thought he was proud; impressed with my movement and shot-making; maybe working on a little encouragement speech to give me (“Son, nothing is impossible for you’’ etc).